Is it called planning, or panic, the thing you do after realising you’re four weeks behind your study plan?
unlock all futures
Death is my final poem,
I will write
Till the ink runs out,
I will write
The wordless eulogy:
Of days of night,
Of the raven’s flight,
Of the nomad,
The no-man – spoiled.
Death is my final poem,
I will croon
If only I could
Exclude tribulations,
As tributes
Like a springless river
Or a fountain
Of youthful dreams –
run dry.
Death is my final poem,
I will mourn
The empty parchments,
I will mourn
Their absence,
I will mourn
In silent – contemplation.
Death is my final poem.
The dawning of the frozen
Time; the unticking clock
Of awakening;
The primary cycle
Interrupted.
Hark! He knocks.
Death is my final poem.
Unwritten by hands
Shaking; by eyes
Weakened and the grey
Tears of a heaven.
Hark! Again the pounding.
Death is my final poem.
Distractions of deluded
Grandeur sail above
Innocent clouds.
Hark! Hark!
Death is my final poem.
Dissonance of unread Mail;
Drawers of dull knives filled.
Hark?
Death is the final poem
I will write
… as I unlock all futures …
On ne passe pas!
There are walls, carefully crafted
Over years of yearning for peace:
Concrete and steel, windowless walls deeper than demons’ lairs,
Higher than the holy heavens,
Thicker than the Tower of London.
Behind the walls, carefully selected
Over decades of delusion: space,
Silence, and a sequestered soul
Searching for absolution.
Outside the walls, a world forsaken
Over a lifetime of lies: time heals all
Wounds.
Masochistic Mayhem
There should be tears,
There should be shouts
Of fear and toys thrown
From prams, and jealousy.
There should be fears,
There in the rocking chair
Of horror and boys grown
From toddlers, and rage.
There should be horrors,
There behind a truth untold
Of suffering and silent posts
In parenthood, and pain.
There should be suffering,
There on the naughty step
Of old and the reopened
Wounds, and the new.
